


Threadbare

by kj_graham



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Episode: s07e02 Hello Cruel World, Episode: s13e01 Lost and Found, M/M, heavily implied destiel, heavily implied sastiel, no explicit sastiel or destiel, the major death is canonical
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2020-04-22
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:22:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23778340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kj_graham/pseuds/kj_graham
Summary: Dean had wondered why Sam had come in. But his hands touch that damn trench coat and Dean almost lets out a bitter laugh. It comes out as something of a sob instead.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester, Castiel/Sam Winchester, Dean Winchester & Sam Winchester
Kudos: 22





	Threadbare

**Author's Note:**

> I'm not entirely sure what this is! This was supposed to be just sastiel, and then destiel wormed its way in, and now i have no clue!! Enjoy <3

After losing Castiel to the Leviathans, Dean’s just grateful they’ve been staying at Bobby’s. Sam isn’t getting any better—if anything, the Lucifer freakshow is just getting worse—and it’s nice to have a familiar face around, a familiar house, familiar routine.

While Bobby’s out, getting food, and Sam sleeps, Dean takes a moment to toast to Castiel. Stubborn bastard that he was, he was important to them, and his sudden absence hurts. Dean’s three shots in when he yanks the damn trench coat from Baby’s trunk and goes to throw it out.

Sam’s voice stops him, hoarse and sleep-worn. The “wait” is so quiet Dean almost misses it, but his muscles react to Sam’s voice automatically, and he freezes, the damp, filthy coat balled in his hands and hovering over the garbage can.

“Don’t,” Sam says, sitting up from the couch and rubbing his eye with his uninjured hand. Dean still has to examine that cut on his other palm. Looked nasty.

“It’s filthy,” Dean protests. “And what are we going to do with it, anyway?”

Sam doesn’t say anything, but he stands up and comes over to Dean. He swallows so hard that it’s audible as he reaches for the trench coat.

Dean doesn’t have the faculties to stop him. He’s left just staring at Sam as his younger brother pulls the trench coat from his grasp, gathering it up to cradle it against his chest almost reverently.

“Don’t,” Sam says again. “And if we were going to get rid of it, shouldn’t we burn it?”

Dean lifts an eyebrow, crossing his arms. “If?”

Sam just blinks at him for a second. His fingers spasm against the coat; Dean winces at the thought of his open wound touching that thing, probably infested with seventeen different kinds of bacteria.

Sam doesn’t look at him. “It’s Cas,” he says, like that explains everything. “If we…we’d have to do it right.”

Sam looks like he’s about two seconds away from burying his face in the damn trench coat. Dean’s had enough. He already misses Cas, too, a white-hot knife under his ribs, but this isn’t going to fly.

“It’s a coat, Sam. Cas was an angel, he’s not gonna come back as a ghost. No use burning the damn thing. And it’s disgusting, just—“ he reaches for it, his fingers hitting one sleeve, and Sam twists away like he’s been slapped.

To Dean’s horror, there are tears in Sam’s eyes. “Dean,” he says. He gathers the coat impossibly closer. “We don’t…he might come back.”

“Alright,” Dean says, aiming for a placating tone. “Listen, Sam, I think you’re just tired, alright. Just…let me take a look at your hand.”

Sam seems to suddenly recall the injury. He peels one hand away from the coat and stares at the blood twining through his fingers and coating his palm, already tacky and now requiring, Dean surmises, at least two coats of antiseptic.

His palm leaves a sticky red handprint behind on the coat.

Dean gets Sam to sit down, starts hemming and hawing over his palm. Castiel’s trench coat is a disgusting blanket hanging over Sam’s knee, his free hand playing with the edges of the sleeves.

Dean doesn’t get it. He can barely look at the thing because all it makes him think of is _Cas_ and he’d rather drown his grief in a bottle than lose it to tattered fabric. He’d throw it out in a heartbeat if he could just get it away from Sam.

Sam’s adept at being the sneaky little brother, though, and he seems to _want_ the constant reminder of the angel around. He runs the trench coat through Bobby’s washing machine, and he must hide it pretty good, because Dean doesn’t see it again until they’re back on their feet, leaving Sioux Falls General. Sam pulls the coat out of his bag and just holds it in his lap, still running his fingers over it like it’s silk, staring at it as they drive.

Dean never knows how to express his gratitude that Sam saved it when Cas comes back; watching the angel put his coat back on gifts all of them with the sight of Sam’s face lighting up with a genuine smile. Castiel coming back to them, wearing that stupid, stupid coat, makes something raw burn in Dean’s throat.

* * *

Once again, everything has gone to hell in a handbasket. Crowley’s gone, Kelly’s dead, their mom is…well..Lucifer had her, so she’s…Dean hates to say it, but she’s dead too. Castiel, for once, won’t be coming back. Dean can see the imprint of his wings in the sand every time he closes his eyes.

Now they have Jack. They have this cabin. They don’t even have Mom’s body to give a proper goodbye to.

Sam’s up early to build the pyre. He avoids the room Cas’s body is in like he’s afraid of it. Maybe he is. Dean’s never seen his brother so consistently on the brink of tears as he is today, every tiny thing thrumming with emotion.

Dean’s tired. He has a pair of white-hot knives in his chest, one for Mom, one for Cas, and they twist and twist and _twist_.

Dean doesn’t know where Sam and Jack are when he finally starts wrapping Cas’s body. After he’s got the sheet tied tight around his legs, though, Sam bursts in.

Dean stares at Sam, not blinking, ignoring the flare of pain in his chest. Sam’s staring at Cas, at his body covered by the sheet, and a tear finally breaks to roll down his face.

“Wait,” Sam says. It’s so quiet that Dean might’ve missed it if he hadn’t been paying attention.

Dean doesn’t even have the energy to ask. He simply channels everything he has in him to staying on his feet and watches Sam approach the table. His brother is weeping soundlessly; his face is already shiny with tears and snot and Dean knows in a little while Sam’s eyes will be bloodshot and puffy, but he doesn’t acknowledge it.

Sam’s hands are trembling as he pulls the sheet back. Dean hates how lost his little brother looks; it’s no secret how much Castiel meant to the both of them, but watching Sam fall apart makes something break even further in Dean. He wants to stop watching, but he’s afraid the tears will fall if he even moves his eyes.

Dean had wondered why Sam had come in. But his hands touch that damn trench coat and Dean almost lets out a bitter laugh. It comes out as something of a sob instead.

Sam touches it as reverently as always. His touch is gentle as he maneuvers it off of Castiel’s body, though Dean doesn’t miss the way Sam’s whole body is quaking in pain.

For a moment, it’s just the three of them, existing in that room, Sam with the trench coat balled up in his arms, nearly touching his face, Dean failing at holding back tears, and Castiel’s body with a presence so loud Dean wants to flinch and cover his ears.

“It’s bloody,” Dean says. “What are we going to do with it?”

Sam doesn’t say anything. He just shakes his head miserably. His grip tightens on the coat and he bows his head, his face pressing tight against the fabric for a moment. It muffles any sobs, but Dean can see his shoulders going, spasming up and down like a choppy ocean.

“Fuck,” Dean mutters, swiping at his eyes. “Sam…”

Sam shakes his head again, face still buried in the coat.

Dean can’t stop himself. His brain is stuck in reverse; he’s remembering the last time Sam had held this damn article of clothing so tightly. “Shouldn’t we burn it?” He whispers.

Sam’s face pops up. He looks like Dean’s just kicked his puppy. “W-what?”

“You know…” Dean swallows. “We have to do it right, Sam. Shouldn’t we burn it?”

Sam blinks more tears out of his eyes. “I was the one who had said that, Dean. You wanted to just-just throw it away, like it’s trash!”

Dean takes half a step back. Sam’s voice is acidic, soured with pain and frustration.

“It’s Cas,” Sam says. “We don’t have anything else of him.”

They stare at each other for a moment. Dean’s not sure he’s seen Sam this torn up since Jess died. He’s not…he’s not sure of anything, right now.

Sam’s eyes flicker to Castiel’s body, cold and still. His entire body seems to recoil; he stumbles over his feet in his haste to turn around.

“Sam,” Dean tries.

“The pyre,” Sam cuts in, voice thick, and flees the room, one sleeve of the trench coat swinging behind him.

Sam must hide it; it’s nowhere to be seen during Cas’s funeral. Dean catches him with it a few weeks later, though.

They’re back in the bunker, and Dean’s heading for the kitchen. He hates waking up with sandpaper for a mouth. Time of the night be damned.

It’s nearly three in the morning, so Dean isn’t expecting Sam to be up, or Jack, although Jack doesn’t seem to sleep much.

Sam is up, though. He’s sitting at the table, a mostly-empty bottle of Jack Daniels in front of him, staring into middle distance.

He’s wearing the trench coat. Dean has to stop in the doorway. For a second, just a second, his eyes had seen that coat stretched over someone’s shoulders and his brain ran with it, heart spiking with hope for a second.

It’s just Sam. The coat is too small for him; the shoulders look far too tight and the sleeves are too short, but he’s all curled up into it regardless.

Dean’s still standing in the doorway when Sam’s eyes flicker up and catch him.

They don’t say anything for a long moment, and Dean enters the kitchen for his water. He slides into the seat across from his brother, who’s trailing one hand over the edges of the coat.

“I miss Cas,” Sam finally says. His voice is heavy with liquor and pain, hoarse from too little sleep.

“Me too,” Dean says. He’s paralyzed by the sight of his brother in their angel’s coat.

Sam leaves first. He staggers a little from the alcohol, but makes it into the hallway fine, and Dean is loathe to follow him.

The trench coat’s far too short on Sam. Doesn’t fall around his knees the way it should, just stops halfway down his thighs.

Dean remembers finishing the Jack Daniels. He doesn’t go back to his room that night.

* * *

Sam’s lamenting the coat. He can’t find it anywhere, apparently. Dean swears on their parents that he didn’t take it, and Jack doesn’t have it, and Sam’s left with this furrowed-brow look on his face as he turns seemingly the whole bunker inside out looking for it. Dean’s caught him a few more times, sitting in the kitchen or the library, sometimes sober, sometimes just this side of drunk, and wearing the trench coat.

They have to leave before Sam finds it. He’s moody the whole drive.

And then Castiel is in front of them, whole and heaving with breath and alive, the trench coat swinging around his knees, swallowing his shoulders, making Dean’s heart boom to a beat of _Castiel, Castiel, Castiel_ and he beats Sam to the punch, pulls their angel into a hug that makes Dean’s throat raw.

Sam hugs Castiel with a smile on his face.


End file.
